


Teenage Wasteland

by turnyourankle



Category: My Chemical Romance, Panic! at the Disco, Paramore, The Used
Genre: Adaptation, Alternate Universe - High School, F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-03-24
Updated: 2008-03-24
Packaged: 2018-04-21 09:34:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,682
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4823939
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/turnyourankle/pseuds/turnyourankle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An adaptation of "Freaks and Geeks" for broadcastbandom ; In the last year of high school, Gerard transitions from being a good student and member of the school's art club to hanging out with troubled slackers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Teenage Wasteland

**Author's Note:**

> No previous knowledge of the show is required to understand the fic as I messed with the chronology a lot. All of the awesome stuff in the fic belongs to the creators and writers of the show, and many props to them for creating such a brilliant series. And of course, many, many thanks to lovebashed for all the cheerleading and for the awesome beta ♥!

To his defense, Gerard actually intends to go to class when Bert grabs a hold of his arm and pulls him with to the smoking patio—or as the teachers like it to be called, the back yard. Bert doesn't say anything, just slumps down on one of the steps, and gestures for Gerard to do the same.

"No, see, you have to look for something in the store that's expensive but looks really cheap. And then you switch price tags with something that is really cheap. Then you put the original tag back on it and return it for store credit," Quinn says, voice loud and determined, as if this were a planned lecture. The only person who seems to be paying attention is Frank, and Gerard sits down next to Bob. He hands Gerard a cigarette.

Quinn continues, "That's how I got this jacket. Ten bucks this thing cost me." 

"Beautiful. Clearly worth all the effort," Frank says, blowing a cloud of smoke in Quinn's direction. Quinn flips him off and steals his cigarette, only taking one drag before dropping it and making a show out of crushing it with the sole of his shoe.

Gerard says, "My dad caught a shoplifter once. He had to keep him in the store until the cops came so they locked him in."

Everyone stares at him. Gerard can't tell if they're impressed or disgusted. Quinn seems to think it's a personal attack, eyebrows knotted and arms crossed.

Gerard shrugs, hoping it comes off as carefree and maybe a little breezy. "My dad says shoplifters cost him a fortune."

Quinn rolls his eyes, and looks at Bert when he asks, "Why is he here again?"

"He's our buddy. Buddy, Buddy," Bert says, and tugs on Quinn's sleeve, trying to get him to tumble into his lap. Quinn doesn't indulge him, and kicks him in the shin instead. 

"What, your butt-buddy? Are you doing him so he'll help you with your math homework?" Quinn's feet kick at Bert's. It's gotta hurt, but Bert doesn't stop smiling, fingers still hooked around Quinn's wrist, pulling him in closer. 

"Did I do something to you?" Gerard asks. He's not keen on being in the spotlight again, but if he pissed Quinn off, he wants to know why.

"You're here."

"I have as much of a right to be here as you do." Gerard means for it to come out confident and cocky, but the words falter, and he sucks on Bob's cigarette, and hands it back to him.

Quinn juts out his jaw, says, "I shoplift at your dad's store, you know? You're just some rich nerd who thinks you'll be cool if you hang out with us. It's not gonna happen. You want to piss off your parents and rebel a bit. We're not your personal accessories."

Bob crushes his cigarette with his foot and doesn't even bother looking at them. "Would you be cool, please?" It's worded politely, but it sounds like a reprimand. It seems to work as one too, because Quinn shuts up.

"If I had a store and I caught a shoplifter, I'd just take him out back, and deal with it." Bert looks at Quinn, and his eyebrows quirk. It's like he missed the entire conversation. Or, knowing Bert, finds it irrelevant.

"Oh, would you, Mr. Tough Man?"

"Sure would." Quinn rolls his eyes and lets out a grunt when Bert rests his head on his shoulder, sticking out his tongue to make wet spots on Quinn's shirt.

Bob casts a glance at them, and sucks his cheeks in like he just realized something. "Did you guys break up or something?

Quinn snorts. "No, I dumped his loser ass." He jerks his shoulders so Bert loses his balance, upper body landing in Quinn's lap. 

"Oh, okay, is that what happened?" Bert says it in a mocking tone, and he rolls his eyes. "If it makes you feel better." Quinn sticks out his tongue at him, but he doesn't attempt to push Bert off of his thighs.

"Good to know," Bob says like he doesn't mean it, and continues, "Does anyone want to go see 'The Wall' with me on Saturday?"

Frank cringes. "You've seen it like, five times, dude."

"Never in one sitting. Figured I should probably see it straight through once."

"Don't do it; you'll regret it, seriously. Unless you're high. No, actually, it's even worse if you're high. Either way, it's a bad idea."

"I would, but my mom's going out of town and I have to like, babysit my brother," Gerard says, and Bert's head turns towards him in slow motion, tongue still hanging out.

"Really. Why don't we all hang out at your place Saturday, instead?" Bert abandons Quinn, and goes to lock an arm around Gerard's neck, face tucked close to his ear, almost licking him. Gerard's starting to think Bert must have an oral fixation, the way he's always wagging his tongue around.

Frank coughs in his hands, emitting a muffled, "Kegger!" Gerard blinks at him. 

"You mean like... a party?" Gerard asks, and Frank's face scrunches up. Bob nods. 

Quinn snorts. "Yeah right, Gerard's too lame to let anyone enter his precious little house."

Bert stares at Gerard expectantly as if to ask if he's going to take that. Gerard would, normally, but Bert looks like he really wants it, and Frank's poking his shoulder. "Sure? I like parties. Why not?"

"Haha! Who's the lame one now?" Bert to Quinn, sticking out his tongue at him. Quinn doesn't look pleased. "It's settled then," Bert shouts, and there's something wet on Gerard's neck that he hopes is Bert's tongue. 

"Why don't you stick a broomstick up your ass," Quinn says, and gets up, leaving them.

Bert laughs, says, "That might be fun, actually," to Quinn as he flips them off without turning around.

"We need to be organized," Bob says. "Ten bucks each for the keg." He looks over at Gerard digging in his pockets and leans over, says, "The house drinks free."

 

...

 

"Did you bring popcorn?" Bert asks, breath hot in Gerard's ear, and he shakes his head. "Shame," he whispers, and Gerard stares at the auditorium stage where Brendon makes a sweeping entrance onto the stage. The school is watching with suspense as Andy Hurley stops a drunken Hayley Williams from getting into a car and driving drunk.

"If you drive right now, you're not only a danger to yourself but to everyone on the road!" Brendon enunciates on stage, looking out over the bored mass of kids before turning back to Andy and tightening his grip around Hayley's arm.

"You're like a loaded gun," Andy says. 

Hayley wobbles a little, but it looks too self-conscious, and Gerard rolls his eyes. "I didn't want to hurt anyone," she says, and fakes a sob. 

"Will you give me your keys now?" Andy asks, and Hayley nods, her mouth in a firm frown. She holds up her empty hand and pretends to hand him the keys. The three of them freeze, and Mr. Aaronson gets on stage, clapping.

"That was amazing, guys. Let's hear it for the student's improv theater! This was a good example on how to prevent tragedy!" He claps louder, and his head bobs in encouragement. There's a couple of people in the audience clapping, and Gerard looks around to see if he recognizes any faces. Mikey's somewhere in the back, and Frank's sitting a row ahead, head leaning against the person sitting next to him and mouth open. It looks like he's about to start snoring any minute.

"Frank's got the right idea," Bert says, and slumps deeper into his seat, resting his head on Gerard's shoulder, making himself comfortable. 

Aaronson's moving around on stage, eyes wide. He's probably high, Gerard thinks. "Just because some of your peers drink, doesn't mean you have to! I know what you're thinking, 'Mr. Aaronson, you don't understand! If I don't drink, I won't be cool!' You know what I say to that? Maybe if you don't drink, you will be cool!" He pauses for dramatic effect before gesturing to Andy, Brendon and Hayley to join him up front. "And now our thespians will show you ways to not drink and still be cool! Now, let’s think of a situation where alcohol might be involved. Any suggestions, dear audience?" 

Someone shouts out, "Sex party!" 

Giggles erupt in the room and Aaronson ignores them. "I think I heard someone suggest a birthday party! Excellent suggestion! Let's set the scene--a birthday party, fraught with temptation. Go ahead, thespians."

"He is so creepy," Gerard whispers, and Bert lifts his head. 

"Yeah, and a serious buzzkill, too." Bert looks around, asks, "Wanna get out of here?" By Bert-standards it's a whisper, but by anyone else's it's pretty loud, and Gerard has to look around to make sure no one's paying attention to them. It looks like the only people awake in the room are the ones on stage.

Gerard nods, and Bert leans over his lap, checking out the exits. "Okay, I'm gonna go, count to ten and then you should follow, okay?"

Gerard nods again, and tries to ignore Bert's elbow digging into his crotch. Bert moves fast, slipping out of the auditorium. 

Gerard hasn't even counted to five when Aaronson says, "You know, children, nothing is more contagious than good judgment!" That's enough for him, and he ducks and tries to run out as quietly as he can.

Bert's standing outside, cigarette already in his mouth, and jerks his head towards the exit. "I love being told not to drink by a pothead hippie counselor." He lights the cigarette, and Gerard considers pointing out that they're still on school property, but the hall looks empty so he lets it slide, keeping an eye on all the classroom doors.

"Yeah, there's probably a bar in the teacher's lounge."

Bert snorts, smoke billowing from his mouth and nose. "Probably, yeah."

"Oh, hey, I hope you don't mind that I invited some of my cousins and some of their friends to the party?"

"That's... okay, I guess? The more the merrier and all that. What grade are they in?"

Bert scrunches up his nose. "No grade. They're... older."

"Oh. Cool."

"Man, I knew you'd be cool with it. Quinn's fucking clueless sometimes." Bert blows some smoke in Gerard's face, and grabs a hold of his jacket, tugging him towards the parking lot. "C'mon, Bob and Quinn are waiting for us outside. We figured we'd pick up the keg. My bro' knows a place we can get it cheap."

 

...

 

Mikey's been watching Gerard empty out bags of Oreos onto trays for twenty minutes without asking who they're for. 

"Did you want some?" Gerard asks, exasperated, and Mikey just shrugs. Gerard goes back to straightening the rows of cookies, making sure an even number is on each tray.

"Aren't they for the party posse?" 

"I—what?"

"The keg is on the living room table. And these are not prop glasses."

"You know, if you're not gonna help, you might as well go to your room. Call Brendon or something. I'm sure he'd be up to seeing Star Wars again."

"At assembly today, they did these improvisations about drinking and driving, it was pretty funny." Gerard winces, piles up some more plastic cups onto the kitchen table.

"Yeah, I saw, that's why I left."

"With Bert."

"Yeah."

"And he's coming?"

"Yeah." Mikey nods, but he doesn't move, still blocking the way to the living room. It's almost funny how such a skinny kid can take up so much space when he wants. "I have to clean up, okay?"

"They showed pictures of kids who died, too. From like, drinking too much."

Gerard hisses a breath. "Fucking propaganda."

"Did you know any of them?"

"No, Mikey, I didn't know any of them. And you shouldn't believe everything the teachers try to tell you, okay? They just want these perfect little clones who'll obey their every demand and order. Like trained pets."

Mikey looks hesitant, but he nods all the same. "What if your friends trash the house?"

"They won't. And I stashed all the fragile stuff in the basement anyway, so any damage should be like, fixable." 

"Is that where grandpa's stuffed bat is?"

"Yeah. Will you help me put up some of those posters?" Gerard nods in the direction of a pile of rolled up posters on the couch. Old yellowed posters that their ma would show them when she felt nostalgic; she'd covered up the walls of her first apartment with them, and couldn't bear to throw them away. "Cover up all the gothy stuff, I don't want to scare them away."

Mikey rolls his eyes. "I don't think anything would scare them."

"Mikey. Please?"

"And what do I get for helping and not telling mom?"

"You get to stay at the party?" Mikey takes one of the oreos off the tray and stuffs it in his mouth. "And... you can have three months worth of your comics of choice? You can borrow my 'Night of The Living Dead' VHS as much as you want!"

Mikey wipes his hands off on his jeans, and crosses his arms, giving Gerard his best Duh look. "Oh! I know! I'll get that girl you like to come, Ali? Alice?"

"Alicia."

"Yeah! Yeah, I can ask Bert to invite her."

"Please don't ask Bert to invite her."

"Frank?"

Mikey cocks his head, and Gerard can practically see the wheels turning inside. "Okay."

"Thanks, Mikes," Gerard says, and he ruffles Mikey's hair without thinking, and Mikey shrinks away. 

"Oh, right, the hair. Sorry!" Mikey gives him a death glare, and grabs a roll of posters. 

 

The first thing Bert says when he comes in is, "I like that unicorn," and Gerard freaks momentarily, thinking he must've forgotten to hide one of his mom's heirlooms. When he turns around, he notices Bert's just nodding at one of the posters Mikey put up, and Gerard shrugs, relieved. 

"What do you think we are, hippies?" Frank asks, and Gerard just gives him a tight smile. 

"I thought it'd sort of, liven up the place, you know? Make it a bit more party-like. Unicorns are happy and stuff, you know. I mean, I love vampires and bats but it's not exactly known to set the mood for others and just--" He's rambling. He knows it, but he can't stop.

"It looks great," Bob says, and rests a heavy hand on Gerard's shoulder. Gerard’s mouth hangs open, but he's not talking anymore, thank god.

Frank produces a portable cup from one of his pockets, and asks, "Keg?"

"In the corner."

"Then I'll be in the corner." Bob follows Frank, and Bert keeps rubbing his nose, surveying the room.

"Hey, don't be nervous, this party's gonna be great. This the main room?" 

"Yeah?"

"Probably big enough, yeah. Word's gotten around. Mind if I check out the rest?"

Gerard shakes his head, says, "Go ahead."

There are at least a dozen people in the living room that Gerard knows he didn't let in, so he shouldn't be surprised when Brendon sidles up to him, eyes narrowed, surveying the premises. Yet, he is. "Brendon? Hi." 

"I saw the cars out in front."

"Yeah, oh. Um. We're all just hanging out." Gerard covers his drink with his hand.

"You missed a pop quiz in chemistry."

Gerard wants to sound unaffected, but he can't help but freak out a little. "I did? Really?"

"Were you skipping out with your new friends? Or should I call them ‘drinking buddies’?"

"Brendon."

"Why are you doing this, Gee? You're asking for trouble."

"Hey, hey, Gerard! Want a refill?" Frank's holding three cups in his hand, the contents almost spilling over to the carpet each time he takes a step. He almost bumps into Brendon as he tries to hold up the cups to Gerard. "Oh! Hello! I don't know you? Do you want a beer?"

"No, thank you, I prefer to get high on life." 

"Wait. You're that guy from that thing yesterday! With the drinking and driving and stuff!" Frank cackles, and Brendon looks offended.

"Listen, Brendon, are you staying or not? I can't babysit you."

"Yes. Yes, I am, and I'm going to have more fun than any of you. Sober."

Gerard rolls his eyes. He downs the rest of his drink, says, "Good for you. I need to take a piss." There are people Gerard's never seen before fighting in the living room. If Brendon wants to scare off all these people, Gerard doesn't know, he doesn't mind.

There's a figure hovering in his mom's room, where no one's supposed to be, and Gerard freaks out until he realizes it's Bert. He's looking at the bookcase filled with framed pictures, looking at them in the dark.

"Bert?"

"Oh, hey. I'm just... looking at all this stuff. How old you here?" He tilts a frame in his direction, and Gerard cringes. It's from the eighth grade art fair. He'd painted this blue tree to convince his teacher that he wasn't a psychopath in the making, and she'd submitted it to some art contest. Which he won. He fucking hated that life affirming hopeful tree. Bert adds, "Is that the religious dude? Brandon? Brenden?"

"Brendon," Gerard corrects automatically, even though he doesn't really have to anymore. "Yeah, uh, he's lived next door to us for like, ever. We used to hang out, I—I was really nerdy."

"Was?"

"Am, I guess."

Bert steps further into the room, fingers grazing awards and medallions hanging on display. "You win a lot, don't you?"

"I guess."

"First place art? Oh right, you were one of those..."

"Art kids? Yeah. I know, it's stupid. I don't do that anymore."

"Why's it so stupid? You look pretty happy in this. Not as happy as the Brandon dude, but still."

Gerard shrugs. He doesn't care to explain this right now. There are many things he doesn't do anymore, and doing extracurricular stuff for art really isn't one of the things he misses right now.

"If I ever won a blue ribbon, I'd be so pumped," Bert says, and he sounds almost sad. Gerard hopes it's just the alcohol talking. "I mean, I wouldn't wear it around or nothing, but. S'cool."

"Thanks." Gerard ducks his head, "Listen, if you want we can--" He turns around, but Bert's gone. Something twists in his stomach, but he finishes re-arranging all the photographs before braving the living room again. 

Some old guy is trying to fight Frank, headbutting him in the stomach. Frank’s limbs wrap around the guy's torso and it looks like he's trying to pound on his back. Gerard would be more worried if it weren't for Bob picking them both apart effortlessly. 

There's a headache blooming behind Gerard's eyes, and he wants to go lie down. If he just goes to sleep now, maybe he'll wake up to a clean, empty house. 

There are people in his bed. It doesn't take long for Gerard to identify them as Quinn and Bert. Quinn's hair is like a beacon, and Bert's low half-growl isn't something Gerard's heard anyone else make, ever. They're rubbing against each other and making wet sounds and god, Gerard really does not want to be seeing this. 

Quinn says, "Watch it, Casanova, you're on my hair!" 

Gerard wants to puke. He holds it back though, because he wants to clean up puke even less than he wants to be witnessing this. On his bed. 

There's a big sliver of light slicing the room when Gerard opens the door wider, and Bert turns around looking up at him. "Oh, hey, Gee."

He quirks an eyebrow, and for a second Gerard thinks Bert's going to ask him to join them, and oh yeah, that nausea? Still there.

"Don't worry, we put your comics on the floor," Quinn says. He moves and Gerard's pretty sure he can count the number of hickies Quinn has around his collarbone, and probably identify their shapes as well. 

He doesn't say anything, just shuts the door and tries to get the nausea to subside. He needs a new bed. He needs new friends. He needs fresh air. 

He goes out the back, and watches the quiet silhouette of the house. If he was just passing by, he'd never be able to tell there was a party going on in there. He takes a few deep breaths before going around to the front of the house. 

Bob's sitting on the porch, rubbing his wrists. He doesn't have a beer with him, just a cigarette caught between his lips. He looks surprised to see Gerard, eyebrows quirking up.

"Bert and Quinn are making out on my bed."

"Oh."

"I didn't even know Quinn was here. And I thought they broke up."

"Oh, yeah, they break up like every week, so." 

"Fuck." Bob moves over, leaving a space for Gerard to sit, and Gerard drops down heavily. His limbs feel loose and rubbery, and he doesn't move from where he's sitting. Maybe this could be his new bed. 

"You don't look like you're having much fun." Bob comments, and goes back to rubbing his wrist.

Gerard laughs a short, bitter laugh. "'M not. 'M really not. I didn't even want this party."

"Unfortunately, once a party is started you can't abort it. You should try to relax and have a good time. I can stay behind and help you clean up after, if you want."

"Really?"

"Yeah." Bob shifts his weight, and puts his arm around Gerard's shoulders as he passes him a cigarette. His wrist looks a little swollen. Gerard looks up Bob's arm, and down again, noticing something imprinted on Bob's hand. It looks a lot like a bite mark. Gerard scrunches up his nose. "Are those--teeth marks?"

"Yeah. Apparently Frank doesn't exactly appreciate being torn away from a fight. Or so this tells me." Gerard holds on to Bob's hand, thumb grazing the red marks.

"I hope you've had a rabies shot," Gerard says, and Bob snorts. He lets Gerard hold onto his hand though, and doesn't ask for his cigarette back.

The party ends a little after midnight when Alicia starts howling about how the police are on their way and everyone should get their asses out right fucking now. Gerard's half-relieved and half-freaked out until he notices Mikey trying not to smile in a corner, watching people filing out. Alicia joins him after closing the door behind the last stumbling couple. She hooks her arm with his, and laughs when she sees Gerard's face. 

"Yeah, so, the police aren't really on their way here."

"No?"

Mikey shakes his head. "I think there was someone having sex in my room, so."

"Can you believe this doofus actually wanted to call the police?" Alicia punches Mikey's shoulder playfully, and her fist turns to an open palm, stroking his arm. She's taller than both of them, and the chain she's using as a belt and the drawings on her hand tell Gerard she wouldn't mind the house in its regular, non-party decorated state.

"I guess thanks are in order, then."

"No worries, thanks for having me, and all. Can I stay a little longer?" 

"Yeah, knock yourself out. Just. Don't make a bigger mess of the place."

 

...

 

Gerard doesn't notice Mikey's snuck into the basement until he's about to dump the sheets from his bed into the laundry basket. Mikey's not wearing his glasses and he's changed his shirt, which—well, Gerard doesn't exactly want to think about what that might mean. 

"Did you have fun?" Gerard asks as he continues to change the sheets on his bed. He's probably not going to be able to sleep in it tonight, anyway. He'd try fumigating it if he thought he could get away with that.

"I was thinking of asking Alicia to homecoming," Mikey says, as loud as he can, expecting Gerard to jump up from where he's sitting, scared of the sudden intrusion.

Gerard nods, and packs away his schoolbooks. "Yeah? That's nice. She's nice."

"Mhmm." Mikey has a way of blending in with the background when he wants but right now he's visible, standing out from the familiar wallpaper and the room's murky colors.

Gerard takes off his hoodie and rubs his face, skin getting raw. This should be Mikey's cue to leave, but he doesn't move from the bed. He keeps staring at Gerard with this demanding look. As if Gerard is supposed to read his mind and figure out what he wants and give it to him. 

"Why are you throwing your life away?" Mikey asks, voice barbed. 

His tone makes Gerard glad he's not facing him. He coughs, and asks, "Did Brendon tell you to ask me that?" 

"Maybe." 

Gerard's lips quirk and he says, "Forget it. Tell him to mind his own fucking business." He sounds bitter, he knows, but he really doesn't feel like dealing with Brendon right now, even by proxy. 

"You know, just because he asked me to ask you, doesn't mean I was going to tell him what you said."

There was a time when Gerard could guess what Mikey was really trying to say. Mikey turns to leave when Gerard doesn't respond. He's almost out the door when Gerard takes a deep breath and says, "Mikey." 

Mikey steps back into the room, and closes the door. Gerard watches as Mikey makes sure the door clicks shut and stays silent. Mikey's features are soft in the dark, eyes narrow as he squints in Gerard's direction, waiting. 

Gerard tries not to let his voice waver when he asks, "Did mom ever tell you I was alone with grandma when she died?"

"No."

Gerard sighs, and glances at Mikey's collar as if everything he needs to know is there. He bites his lip before continuing; voice pointed, "Yeah. Mom was down in the cafeteria to get coffee; she said she'd get me some lemon jello. I don't know how long she'd been gone, ‘cause grandma just--she seemed so peaceful? Like she was asleep. But she woke up, I guess, and--she looked so terrified all of a sudden." Gerard's voice trembles, and Mikey's glad Gerard's not looking at him in the face anymore. "She grabbed my hand and told me she didn't want to go. She looked so scared. So scared, Mikey. And I didn't know what to say, so I asked if she could see God or heaven or a light, you know, anything that they tell us in church?" 

Mikey fidgets, takes a sharp breath before asking, "What'd she say?"

Gerard shakes his head, motion automatic. "'Nothing. There's nothing’. She was a good person all her life and that's what she got." 

When Gerard looks at Mikey he's staring at his hands. He gets up from the stairs, jeans dusty. 

"Did you think Alicia'd go to homecoming with me?"

There's a small forced smile gracing Gerard's face, and he says with a tight voice, "Yeah. Totally." Gerard smiles, and he hopes it comes off as sincere. 

 

...

 

On Monday, Mr. Aaronson greets Gerard with a perky, "Hello, Gerard! How are we this morning?"

His face is creased from the huge smile he's wearing, and he looks possessed, winking at Gerard as if the two of them had some sort of inside joke. 

"It's not really morning anymore."

Aaronson laughs a high dry laugh. "Not really, no. Amazing observation. I was thinking maybe you'd like to have a little talk with me? I know you've some free time right now. What do you say? Shall we have a little congregation?"

"Why can't you just leave me alone?"

"Because this is my job! I'm a guidance counselor trying to guide you."

"Guide someone else," Gerard says, brushing some hair out his face. He really does not have time for this right now.

"See, I heard the words but your eyes said something else: I'm lost, I need help! Don't listen to me, guide me! Now, why don't you come on back to my office? It'll be completely painless, cross my heart."

"I haven't even done anything."

"No, of course not. I'm just checking in with my good friend Gerard Way. It's nice to have a break from the delinquents sometimes. I'm not 'Mr. Aaronson'. I'm just Craig! Fellow human! And you're just Gerard: boy who needs a friend. So talk to me! Communicate! Is there something wrong with a little man to man communication?" Aaronson winks at him, and Gerard has to stop himself from backing away. He sits down on the tattered chair in front of Aaronson's desk instead. Anyone with this ugly an office can't be much of a threat.

"I guess not."

"So how's everything going? Class keeping you interested?

"I guess."

"Hmm, that's great, Gerard." Aaronson smiles, and nods, waiting for something more. Gerard has no idea what he wants, so he lets himself sink deeper into the chair. 

"So. I understand you and Bert McCracken are getting pretty tight. How's that going?"

"What?!" Seriously, what? He blinks a few times, trying to collect his thoughts. The only way Aaronson could know anything is if he'd been to the party. Or if someone who was at the party told him. 

"We're just friends," Gerard says, and squirms in his seat. This is really not what he expected. 

"Now, don't worry. You don't need to explain yourself to me, I've been to Woodstock; I'm not judging," Aaronson says, hands up in the air. "I just think you should know what you're getting yourself into. When you're a teenager, it's easy to get lost in your emotions. There are all these hormones running high, and it's easy to be confused." 

It sounds rehearsed. Maybe it's a joke. Candid camera? "Here, have this." Aaronson slips him a brochure, and Gerard wants to drop it when he sees what’s on the cover. There are two stick figures on the front holding hands, and there are hearts around their heads. The headline reads 'Dating, sex and you!' He must be making a disgusted face, because Aronson tilts his head, and gives Gerard his best Those Darned Kids-expression.

"Don't let it scare you. It's important to know about this stuff; you have to be careful these days. Especially in your case." If Gerard weren't too pre-occupied being horrified, he'd be offended on Bert's behalf. But Bert's integrity isn't his top priority right now.

"I know, I know," Gerard says, and folds the brochure into a tiny, tiny square. 

"Do you? I thought I did until one night I was checking out this disco, and I met this girl and we had some funtimes, and now. Now I get sores on my lip once a month." He makes a dramatic pause to let Gerard digest the information. Gerard doesn't want to digest it; he'd rather bleach his brain than think of Aaronson getting it on with some chick. "It doesn't hurt, but it's not nice, and it will never go away." 

"Can I go now? Please?"

Aaronson twists his mouth and folds his arms together. "I just blew your mind, didn't I?" He looks pleased.

"No, not really."

"Okay. Just remember to use your head." He leans back in his chair, eyebrows raised.

"My head's getting used, I promise. I just don't wanna miss lunch. Nutrition and all that. Food for the brain. Which is used a lot."

"Alright, go on."

 

...

 

Gerard is glad he skipped the very unappetizing Salisbury steak and stewed spinach when he's greeted with the sight of Bert and Quinn making out on the bleachers. Frank doesn't look all that pleased either, which is making Gerard feel a little bit better. 

"Would you knock it off? You're making me sick," Frank complains. 

"Why don't you make out with Bobby there and we'll call it a foursome," Bert says before biting Quinn's ear. 

"Why don't you make out with my butt and we'll call it love," Frank retorts.

Quinn laughs, and Bob says, "Careful, he might actually take you up on that."

"Watch out, the narc is here," Quinn singsongs when his eyes lock with Gerard's, and he wedges himself closer to Bert.

"Yeah, watch out or I'll bust you," Gerard says, trying to keep his voice light. Quinn probably saw Gerard getting pulled into Aaronson's office, and now they probably all think that he told him all about their after school activities. And during school activities. 

"Hey man, I ain't joking. I heard what you did to Joe Trohman. Saw him smoking a joint outside the quick mart and went and told some cops? Joe's in prison now, man. And I heard his brother's looking for you."

"What? I didn't do that!" Gerard's voice is really high, and Quinn starts laughing, a loud screeching sound. 

Bob says, "He got me with that same joke just last week. It's kind of funny, though. Don't worry about it."

"We're going out driving on Friday, wanna come with?" Bob asks eyes focused on the cigarette between his fingers.

"Friday, like, Halloween?"

"Yep," Quinn says, and he makes this obscene pop when he says it. "Me, Bert, Bob and... well, you, if you wanna come."

"Why isn't Frank coming?"

Frank snorts. "'Tis the day of my birth, so I've got better plans than hanging out with you, dudes."

"So it's like a double date?" Gerard tries not to look too skeptic. He's not sure that he wants to spend more time than necessary with Bert's swollen lips attached to Quinn's neck, throat, mouth. 

Bert rolls his eyes. "If that's what you want to call it in your diary, princess."

"I don't think I can. I'm supposed to go trick or treating with my brother. It's sort of a tradition." Gerard looks at Bob when he says it, but there's no reaction. He takes a deep drag off his cigarette, and is intently not looking at Bert and Quinn. "Really dorky, I know. We've been doing it for as long as I can remember, though."

"I don't think that sounds dorky at all," Quinn says, and Gerard thinks Bert would be laughing if his mouth wasn't firmly attached to Quinn's neck. "Your loss."

Bob shrugs and clears his throat. "Some other time, maybe."

 

...

 

"Brendon?" Gerard asks and blinks, unsure whether he's actually seeing what he's seeing. 

Brendon's head jerks in his direction, lips red and puffy, and he lets go of Hayley. Her hair is covering most of her face, but Gerard can tell her lips are just as puffy as Brendon's, and she wipes her mouth on her sleeve. 

Brendon looks shocked, eyes wide and mouth open. As if he wasn't making out in a public parking lot that doesn't even have that many cars in it. Hayley leans against the schoolbus and flashes Gerard a shy smile. She's wearing her cheerleading outfit and a pin that says 'Jesus loves you!' This can not be happening.

It looks like Hayley's about to say something when Brendon steps forward and blocks her from Gerard's view.

"Gerard? Hi," Brendon says, flustered. He straightens out his shirt, tucking it back into his jeans, and jogs up to Gerard. "Hi, wassup--"

"What was that?"

Brendon looks at him with a blank face. He makes this motion like he's flipping his hair, but it's not long enough to actually flip. "Who?"

"Brendon." Gerard's lip tugs up. "I'm not blind. Why are you sucking face with Hayley?"

"We met at church camp. I'm so sorry Gee, you weren't supposed to see, it's kind of a secret." Brendon sounds legitimately sorry. 

"You have a girlfriend? Why didn't you tell me?" He tugs on Brendon's shirt. "Good for you, you know, I just, didn't expect it."

"I didn't want to make you feel bad, since you don't have anyone... you know."

"Oh." 

Brendon digs his hands into his pockets and balances on the balls of his feet. "Sooo. Are you coming trick or treating with Mikey and me on Friday?"

"I—I think I have plans, actually," Gerard says, and he wants to go find a wall to bang his head against as soon as he does. 

"Oh, okay. Well. See ya!" 

"Yeah," Gerard says as Brendon hops back to Hayley and takes her hand. He lets out a groan, and smacks himself in the head with his open palm.

"You okay?" 

Gerard jerks, and turns around to see Bob just standing behind him, calmly chewing gum. Like he witnesses this kind of behavior on a daily basis. Although, considering who his friends are, he probably does.

"Is it just me, or does life suck?" Gerard says, and he doesn't mean it to come out as whiny and exhausted as it does.

"I think there's something you should see. C'mon," Bob says and starts walking without looking back. He waves at Gerard to come with.

Bob doesn't say anything about where they're going, and they walk several blocks in silence. None of the streets look familiar to Gerard but Bob seems to know where they're going, so Gerard continues to walk next to him, watching as his feet crush fallen leaves.

They stop in front of a generic looking garage. Bob pauses for effect before opening, says, "Be prepared to have your mind blown," and he smiles, like, a real wide smile. Gerard's never seen one of those on Bob. He should smile like that more often.

Bob's smile widens even more once the garage door is opened. The entire space is taken up by a drum kit. Gerard's never seen so many drums in one place. Bob steps inside, navigating his way to the seat, and makes a sweeping motion with his hands. "Fourteen mounted toms, eight floor toms, four splashes, ten cowbells, four rides, five snares and a rototom. And it's all mounted on my infamous quadruple kick drum system." He catches his breath and looks at Gerard with shining eyes. Gerard steps inside of the garage, trying not to stumble over any of the stray drums, and nods.

"Six more pieces and I got a bigger kit than Neil Pert from Rush," Bob adds, and if you looked up 'glowing' in the dictionary, Gerard's pretty sure this is what you'd see. 

"That's... great, Bob. Really great."

"Teachers want us to work, right? And I say fine, I'll work. But you got to let me do the work I want to do. It's not just the drum kit; it's just. This is what I want to do. And. I think you just need to find your big gigantic drum kit." It looks like Bob might be blushing, it's sort of hard to see with him looking away.

"Maybe I'll buy a clarinet," Gerard says, and Bob starts laughing.

"I know you're busy on Friday, but I've got some band practice tonight. You know, a bunch of guys with guitars coming over. Just a little bit of jamming; it's pretty low key." Bob clears his throat. "Maybe, you'd like to come?"

"I think I'm busy," Gerard says. Bob nods, runs a finger on the edge of a cymbal. His shoulders look tense again. "Does the offer still stand? For Friday, that is?"

Bob looks in his direction, clears his throat. "Yeah. Yeah it does."

"Okay." Gerard smiles. "Hey, you could play me something now though, if you want?"

"Why do you hang out with them?" Mikey asks when they're both slumped on the front lawn on Friday night. Mikey looks uncomfortable, his robot costume forcing his limbs in awkward positions. Gerard shrugs, and sits down on the curb, keeping an eye out for Bert's cousin's brother's car. Or whomever Bert borrowed it from. 

Brendon comes ambling in their direction, wearing a farmer’s hat and a checkered shirt. It's not that different from what he usually wears. He's chewing on something green. "I thought you were busy?"

Gerard shrugs. He nods at the candy Brendon's carrying in his hand, asks, "Have you been trick or treating already?"

Brendon shakes his head. "I'm just getting a head start. Want some?" he holds out the packet to Gerard. 

"I don't even know what that is," Gerard says, and tries not to look too suspicious of the powder in the paper packet.

"It's Lik-M-Aid. It makes my spit taste like fruit juice."

"That's nice."

Brendon shrugs, and goes back to sucking on the candy stick. 

There's a drawn out honking when Bert pulls up, deteriorating in short loud honks by the time he stops the car. The engine sputters, and it's almost louder than the honking. Bert rolls down the window, and Brendon walks up to him, almost sticking his head into the car.

"Your car is really loud." 

"That's kinda the point, yeah," Bert says, smirking.

"My dad says you need a muffler. Once, you drove by our house really late and woke him up, so he threw a rock at you. But I guess it didn't do anything since it's still as loud."

"He threw a rock at me?" Bert says, and he looks at Brendon like he's a circus phenomena. Quinn leans over Bert's lap and sticks his head out the window.

"What the hell are you eating?" He frowns at Brendon's candy. "Is that laundry soap?"

"It's Lik-M-Aid. Want some?" Brendon asks, and thrusts his hand out to Quinn.

"No thanks," Quinn says, and drops back down on his seat. Bert looks down at the pack and shrugs, sticking a finger in his mouth and then dipping it into the pack. 

"We don't have all the time in the world, Gerard, you coming or what?" He licks his finger clean.

Bert starts the car as Gerard crams himself into the backseat, and the sudden movement means he almost ends up in Bob's lap. He doesn't get why it's so crowded until Frank peers out from Bob's other side, face almost completely hidden by a Frankenstein mask. He shouts a, "BOO!"

"His plans fell through," Bob says apologetically. 

"My mom had to work on my birthday."

"Oh. I'm sorry Frank, happy birthday," Gerard says, and tries to sound cheerful. 

"Thank you! Finally, some sort of acknowledgment."

Quinn leans out of the car when Bert picks up the speed, his hair standing up on end when he ducks back in. He's singing along to the song on the radio, and turns the volume up so high Gerard has to wince. 

He's relieved when Bert says, "Knock it off blondie, you're going to blow the speakers," and turns the volume back down.

Quinn sticks out his tongue. "Oh, I'm sorry grandpa, I'll try not to blow anything of yours from now on." Bert messes Quinn's hair even more, and the shouting dissolves into a fit of laughter.

"You two are adorable," Frank says, and it drips with sarcasm.

"Do we have any specific plans? ‘Cause there's this haunted house on fourth that's supposed to be really good."

"That sounds like fun," Bob says, and Frank elbows him.

"Oh please, haunted houses are for losers," Quinn says up front, and Gerard thinks he can actually hear him rolling his eyes.

"Shut the fuck up. I like haunted houses," Bert says, sounding more amused than offended.

"I rest my case!" Quinn throws his arms up in the air.

"Can't we just drive around and see where the night takes us? That cool with you?" Bert turns around, stares at Gerard. "That okay with you?"

"Yeah, I guess. I'm up to anything."

"Your input has been invaluable," Frank says, and Bob elbows him.

"Ow, motherfucker, that hurt."

"You did it first."

"If I wasn't so adamant on road safety, I'd climb over you right now and pull your hair, you know."

"Consider it noted."

"You know what we could do? We could go see the new Friday the 13th. I hear it's playing downtown."

"Why do we always have to do something? What is your obsession with that, Gerard?" Quinn asks.

"He's right, you know. We can't just drive around all night," Bob says, looking out the car window.

"We're not going to just drive around. It's Halloween for fuck's sake."

"And my birthday," Frank says reflexively.

Bert cackles. "And our dear Frankie's birthday. We've got plans, don't worry." He glances at Frank. "Did you bring the stuff?"

Frank picks up a carton of eggs. "Breakfast, anyone?"

"Dig in, children," Bert announces, and reaches back for Frank to hand him some eggs. He passes a few on to Quinn who has a grin plastered over his face. Bob hands Gerard a few, and he takes them hesitantly.

"Relax, okay? It's Halloween, we're supposed to do this stuff," Bert says, eyes meeting his in the rearview mirror. Gerard nods, and follows Quinn's example, leaning out of the window. It's dizzying, and he can't really focus, all the colors blending into one another, everything moving way too fast.

"There!" Quinn shouts and points at this group of kids standing by the curb fifty feet away. Gerard squints, attempting to make them out, but can't really see anything other than the silver from the costumes.

"I can't see. Quinn, you're blocking my view," he says. 

Quinn doesn't even turn when he answers, "You don't have to see, just toss the eggs, GO!"

Gerard throws when Quinn does, and from the loud smacks and shrill screams, he guesses they aimed correctly. Quinn's laughing hysterically when he gets back into the car, and Gerard does the same without the laughter. He turns around, rubbing his eyes, and the group of kids they just egged look extremely familiar. It's only when the car slows down that Gerard realizes why they looked so familiar. 

"Oh my god."

"What?" Bob asks, and Gerard's face goes slack. He's going to throw up. "What's wrong?"

"We just egged my little brother."

Quinn's still laughing, this weird sound coming from his throat as if he were choking, and god, Gerard wishes he'd choke right now. "It's not funny. Stop the car. Bert. Please stop the car, I have to--I have to do something, oh god."

"Take it easy, okay; it's just eggs," Quinn says. "It's like a rite of passage. He can say he's a man now, or something."

"It's good for your hair," Frank says, and it's probably meant to be reassuring, but it's anything but. Gerard would jump out of the car right now if Bob wasn't holding him back, hands firm against his waist.

Gerard keeps repeating himself, saying, "Stop the car, please, Bert," each time his voice getting higher and less recognizable. 

Bert doesn't listen until Bob says, "Let him out, come on." Bob stares Bert down, and his voice is just as calm and forceful as ever. Like a punch in the gut. Gerard sort of loves Bob right now. And he's hit with a mixture of relief and mind-numbing guilt when Bert hits reverse and they're level with Mikey. Brendon is just standing there, mouth hanging open, tongue and lips still green from the Lik-M-Aid. 

"Mikey, Mikey I'm so sorry, I'm so, so, so, so sorry. You have no idea."

Mikey just stares at him, and Gerard can feel his eyes burning and his mouth getting dry. 

"He really is sorry. We're all sorry, kid, honestly," Quinn says, and he looks pretty sincere, but Gerard still wants to punch him. Punch him really hard. That's not his priority right now, though.

"Mikey, come home, please. Get in the car, please. We'll give you a ride."

Mikey doesn't move and his face is still blank. There's some yolk stuck to the frame of his glasses, pieces of eggshell decorating his collar.

"It wasn't Gerard's fault, okay? He didn't know it was you."

"He feels really bad about it," Bob says, face perched over Gerard's shoulder. His hands are still around Gerard's waist.

"I do, god, Mikey, I'm so. I'm so stupid."

Mikey rolls his eyes and starts walking away, picking up speed with every step. Brendon gives Gerard a glare before running after him. "Mikey!"

"Is it just me or did he seem upset?" Frank asks, and it's a good thing Gerard can't reach him from where he's sitting.

"I am in so much trouble, ugh," Gerard says and buries his face behind his hand, palm squashing his nose and pressing against his lips.

"Just take him home already. I knew he'd be a drag," Quinn says, and Gerard kicks the back of his seat, hard.

 

...

 

When Gerard gets home, his mom is fussing over Mikey. She's trying to pluck away all the tiny eggshell shards from his hair and shoulder. She's still wearing her work clothes, face caked with make up and the tops of her curls frizzy. She looks like she's about to burst into tears. 

"Who would do this? Why would anyone do this? Did you see who it was? Is Brendon alright?"

"Some freaks is all. It's fine, mom, I'm fine. I just need to take a shower," Mikey says, looking at Gerard. 

"Children are so cruel these days. I just don't understand."

"Kids never threw eggs when you were in school?" Gerard asks, and he wants to kick himself for that. He starts helping her instead, using a towel to wipe Mikey's hair clean. His eyes are still stinging.

"I just know I never did, and I don't understand. Do you understand, Gerard? It just doesn't make sense to me," she repeats, clutching her purse in one hand and Mikey's shoulder in the other.

"Could you get some soap, mom?" She nods and goes off to the bathroom, and Gerard has to stop himself from bursting into tears right there. It'd probably look really suspicious if he did.

"I'm really sorry, really, really sorry."

Mikey doesn't look at him when he says, "No one thinks you're cool, you know."

"I know. Trust me, I know."

 

...

 

Gerard's seen the inside of Aaronson's office way too many times this year, the dusty furniture and out of place pastels all too familiar, but at least this time he's not alone; the rest of the gang sitting obediently on plastic folding chairs usually reserved for graduations.

"There's two ways you can look at anything in this life. Take my job, for example: I could get up every morning and whine about how I have to help ungrateful kids all day, but I don't. I get up every morning, put on my shirt and my tie and say, 'Hot dog! Let me at 'em!"

Frank stares at him in disbelief. "You actually say the word 'hot dog'?"

"Yes, I do," Aaronson says, and smiles wide. He looks deranged. "I know you're struggling. That's what they made guidance counselors for: to help you. I understand you're confused. You guys have just gone through puberty! You guys are tall; I'm surprised you even fit through that door, quite frankly."

"Is he mocking us?" Frank asks Bert, not even bothering to lower his voice.

"I bet you feel alone. And confused. And you don't think anyone understands. Well, I do. Lots of people do. Even Mr. Alice Cooper does. Bet you don't think he's a square, do you?" Aaronson cocks his head, and twists in his chair to pick up a guitar that's been propped up against the wall all term. Gerard's been wondering what that was about. 

"Nah, man, Alice Cooper rocks," Quinn says, but he still looks hesitant, eyeing the guitar as if it were a machine gun. 

Aaronson plucks some strings, looking satisfied. Gerard doesn't know why; even he can tell the guitar is out of tune. Aaronson settles on a familiar melody and asks, "Do you know this song? Lines form on my face and hands! Lines form from the ups and downs! I'm in the middle, without any plans!" 

It's like watching car crash where the car thinks it's actually supposed to be crashing. Quinn and Bob are the only ones who seem to feel the same as Gerard though, looking at Aaronson as if he grew a second head. Frank's miming along all the words, and emitting a raspy, "Eighteen!" when Aaronson gets to the chorus. Bert's almost moshing in his chair, stringy hair hitting the wall as he headbangs. 

Aaronson looks satisfied when he finishes. "Does this make any sense at all? I think it does."

"Can we go now?" Gerard asks, and Aaronson gestures at the door.

"It was a pleasure having you."

Quinn doesn't wait until they're outside of the office to hiss a, "Oh my god." He's covering his ears with his sleeves, eyes darting all over the place.

"That was brutal," Bert says, but he looks pretty pleased.

Bob says, "I've never hated Alice Cooper as much as I do right now."

"Guys, Mr. Aaronson's really good at the guitar. Some of those chords are hard."

They've only gotten out in the hall when Aaronson waves Gerard over again and calls, "Gerard!"

"What? You're not gonna sing again, are you?" Gerard's face is frozen in horror. His face will probably be stuck that way forever.

"No, I was just having fun in there. But I'm worried about you."

"Why?"

"Because you're not one of them. You're a different breed. I'm just worried because before you know it, you're going to have to start applying for colleges. And if you keep going the way you're going... some of those colleges may not want you." 

"Maybe I don't want them. You know, not everybody in this world has to go to college. You know who didn't go to college? Einstein. Thomas Edison." 

Aaronson nods, as if digesting the information, then says, "Fred." 

"Fred who?"

"The dude who pumps my gas," Aaronson says, and flashes Gerard a pleased smile. "Just saying."

When Gerard catches up with the others, Bert's lying on top of Quinn on the yard and Frank's smoking something that smells a lot like pot. Aaronson's lecture was clearly effective.

"Should you really be smoking that here?" Gerard asks Frank, poking him in the shoulder. He shrugs. 

"They can't bust me if I've smoked it all."

"You're an idiot," Bob says, and grabs the joint. He puts it out, and throws it at some bushes a few feet away. 

"Every old person thinks they're so smart," Bert says. It's hard to make out, Bert's voice muffled by Quinn's jacket. 

"Yeah, like there are no dumb old people."

"I just want to be older so I can go to clubs and see bands," Frank says. He's throwing pieces of gravel at Bert's back, trying to get him to roll over.

"Ow, motherfucker, that hit me in the eye!"

"Oh! This reminds me, I saw this ad for Battle of the Bands at the Rusty Nail, this weekend. And there's no age limit."

Frank rolls his eyes. "That sounds promising."

"We have to start somewhere. And the prize is three hundred bucks."

"Is this the band you were talking about before? The one you wanted me to see practice?" Gerard asks, and Bob nods.

"That's the one."

"Wow, that's great, Bob."

Bert raises his voice a few octaves, repeats, "That's great, Bob." Quinn snorts, and bites Bert's finger as he slips it into his mouth. "Why don't you just fuck him already, Christ."

Bob ignores him, and Gerard hopes he's not blushing. "We've got practice scheduled tonight, it won't hurt to see if there's any song we've got that would work for the battle."

"Right, right, Mr. Slavedriver."

"You should come, Gerard. Watching them practice is a serious turn on," Quinn says, and oh, yeah, Gerard's definitely blushing now.

"Only if it's alright with the others?"

Bob shrugs. It seems a little too non-committal even for him. Quinn's smirking. "Sure, sure. An objective opinion would probably be nice."

"Okay, sure. What time?"

"We said three o'clock, right, Bert?" Frank asks, and Bert nods.

"Three it is. Do you guys have a name? You're going to need a name for Battle of the Bands. And merch. And logos."

"I think you're getting ahead of yourself there, Gee," Bert says.

Bob shakes his head at the same time as Frank says, "Yeah, Creation." He pumps his fist.

Bob stares at Frank. "No, we don't have a name."

"I like that name!"

"You also like pixie stix pirogies. Your taste is questionable to say the least," Bob says, and Frank flips him off.

 

...

 

Gerard's not sure if he'd call Bob's band a band. It looks and sounds more like three people playing the same song in the same place with no real interaction or tact. They're all good on their own, but together they don't sound all that cohesive. Quinn seems to like it, bouncing around the couch like a maniac. He's making Gerard look bad. He's making Gerard feel bad.

Quinn looks like he's had a complete work out when the practice is done. He sounds out of breath when he says, "That was amazing; you look so hot when you play."

"Oh, yeah?" Bert drops his guitar to the floor, climbing onto the couch to straddle Quinn's lap.

Bob nods at Gerard, asks, "Well?"

"It was great. Really wild." If Gerard's being completely honest with himself, he didn't really like it. But if he's being honest, he doesn't really know that much about playing music, so he figures it's safer to just shut up.

"Hi, Mr. Bryar," Frank says loudly, waving his hands about. Bert makes a sharp move, twisting himself off of Quinn just in time for Bob's dad to appear.

"Gentlemen. I take it the symphony is over?"

"Sorry dad, we just finished. It sounded a lot better, though, right?"

"Bob, can I talk to you for a moment?"

"Can it wait, I've got company right now."

"Robert."

"Okay, fine. Guys, I'll be just a minute." His voice is tight, and he doesn't look back at them before leaving the room with his dad. 

"Let's get out of here," Bert says, packing down his guitar.

"He said he'd just be a minute, we're not in a rush, are we?"

Bert snorts. "Yeah, Bob might just be a minute, but Bryar Senior won't."

"He'll meet us there, he knows where we're at." There are raised voices coming from the next room, and Frank squirms, his fingers tapping impatiently against the doorknob.

"Gee, you coming?" Quinn asks, arms still resting over Bert's shoulders. 

"I think I'll wait. We'll catch up with you later."

Quinn shrugs, and Frank says, "Good luck with that."

When Bob comes back into the room, he doesn't look at Gerard. His face is flushed, and he heads straight towards the pile of towels next to the couch. He presses it against his face and starts screaming into it. It's like he's done this before. He probably expected them all to leave. Gerard wishes he'd left with the others. He debates leaving now, before Bob realizes that he's still here, but he can't bring himself to do it. 

He can't just pretend this didn't happen. "Are you okay?" 

Bob lets the towel drop, and his face is slack, emotionless. He nods. "Sure, yeah. Why don't you. Why don't you go meet up with the others? I'm sure they're waiting. 

"I'm... sorry. I couldn't help overhearing, and you're the one who told me when you met me that your drums are your life. And just. I don't think you should let anyone talk you out of that. You just need to stick with it, and prove everybody wrong."

"Is that really what you think?"

"You can do whatever you want if you believe in yourself."

"No one's ever said that to me before."

"Well, it's true. You just need like, a plan."

Bob nods. "Right."

"I just think you guys need to rehearse. Like, you're good, right, but if you want to prove your dad wrong, you need to be amazing. And that requires practice."

"Bert isn't really into practicing."

"Okay. Have you thought... of joining marching band, maybe? It could help with like, technique, and spirit. I think they perform, too."

"I can't; my grades aren't good enough, and. They wouldn't let me." His jaw tightens, fingers flexing around the towel.

"Okay. Then practice it is. You've got some scheduled tomorrow, right? Just... try to make it last longer. Who's the leader of this band: you or Bert?"

Going to practice again is like a train wreck. It's not that they suck; it's that they don't seem to care, really. Bob pounds away at the drums, and Frank lifts his mic stand and continues to sing-scream into the air. Bert's chords are sloppy, and he seems more focused on screaming back up than strumming his guitar. Quinn's still rocking out next to Gerard though, as if this were the best thing ever. 

Bert wipes his brow before the song is even over, Frank's last words blending in with the drums. Gerard has to stop himself from wincing, and he nods encouragingly at Bob who's staring at him. Gerard can tell Bob's not liking the sound either. "We should do it again."

"What?"

"'Sunshine of Your Love'. Let's play it again."

"We just played it. Why should we do it again?"

"It wasn't right. It was sloppy and nothing like the record."

"I don't care what the record sounds like. We play it the way we play it," Bert says, almost spitting out the words.

Bob grits his teeth together, says, "I just want to play the song right. Once, at least."

"Look, any way we play it is the right way. We're playing it. Not the fucking record."

"We need to be better if we want to get into Battle of the Bands." 

"Who the fuck cares about Battle of the fucking Bands? I don't."

"Maybe you guys are just screwing around, but I want us to be good. I want us to nail that audition. But we're not going to nail it unless we play the songs over and over and over again, until they're perfect. So, can we play the song again? Bert?"

"Play the stupid song," Bert snarls, and Bob picks up his drumsticks. He looks more possessed than he does satisfied.

"This is really fun, guys, I'm glad we have a band," Frank says into the microphone, voice flat, before starting into the first verse. 

They keep running through the song. Bob doesn't give them the option of stopping; keeps the beat going on until the last lyric, and Frank starts up again on automatic. Bert's grip around his guitar loosens with every run through. They stop when Bob does, his face twisted, and breath ragged.

"It sounded better," Gerard says, and tries to smile encouragingly.

"Oh, did it, Gerard? You approve? I'm so very glad you do," Bert spits out, and he's close enough to Gerard that he could bite him if he wanted to. 

"We need to rehearse more," Bob says, even though it's clear from the way he's holding his wrist that he can't drum anymore today. 

Bert doesn't look at him when he says, "No, you need to rehearse more. I need to get the hell out of here."

Quinn grabs a hold of Bert's arm, forcing him to back away. He says, "I'm outta here," eyes fixed on Bert. It seems to calm him down, for some reason, and his fingers knot into Quinn's hair, making a fist. It looks like it hurts, but Quinn just keeps pushing Bert towards the door. 

"It sounded better," Bob says, and now he's not even hiding the pain he's in; hand limp and wrist swollen.

"Who cares? We're in a paneled basement. Not in the silver dome," Frank says, staring at Gerard like he just kicked a puppy.

"You and Yoko here have turned music into school. There's a reason I don't ever go, you know. Rock and roll don't come from your brain, it comes from your crotch. And if you ever got any, you'd know that. What're you gonna do, start handing out band homework?" Bert spits on the floor: a foamy white splotch on the carpet. 

Bob doesn't seem to care. "I just want to play the song right."

 

...

 

Frank's sitting alone on the patio at lunch. There are Sour Patch Kids wrappers spread in a circle around him on the picnic table. He nods at Gerard when he sees him, but it's not a friendly nod. His lower lip bitten into, shoulders hunched.

Gerard waves, asks, "Where's everyone?"

"No idea."

"That's kinda weird, isn't it? I mean, that no one is around. Not that you don't know where they are."

Frank looks up at him from where he's sitting, and flicks some candy wrapper onto the ground. "I'm just. Gonna go, then."

"Hey, Gerard. Thanks for breaking up the band."

"What?"

"What?" Frank mocks, and crumples some of the wrappers into a ball.

"I didn't--I didn't mean to do that. I just. I just thought you should learn one song."

"So you admit it?"

"Yes, I admit it. God, how could I be so awful as to suggest that you play an entire song correctly all the way through? God knows Zeppelin only plays half of 'Stairway to Heaven', and that The Who never even practices 'Teenage Wasteland'." Gerard catches his breath, and waits for Frank to jump up and punch him or something. 

He doesn't. Instead, he says, "'Baba O'Riley'." His voice is soft, disappointed.

"What?"

"The song's name is 'Baba O'Riley'. It's on 'Who's Next'," Frank says, not even bothering to look at Gerard. He rubs his hands off on his jeans before leaving Gerard on the patio.

A fisted hand nudges Gerard's back, and he almost jumps two feet. When he turns, it's only Bert. "Speak for yourself."

"You know I didn't want to break up the band, I just wanted to help Bob."

Bert does this weird, cackling sound, and says, "He doesn't need any help." 

"How can you say that? If he doesn't make it as a drummer, he's going to be sent to military school."

"What? He's not gonna make it as a drummer. So why don't you let him have some fun before he has to ship off."

"You sound just like his dad."

"Maybe his dad is right," Bert says, almost singsonging the words. Like it's all a big fucking joke.

"I can't believe you're saying that. Weren't you the one talking about how stupid old people were?"

"Gerard. He's not going to be the next Keith Moon. He literally can't. Don't you ever wonder why he's got that bandage? So if he's got some place that's going to take care of him, why don't you just stay out of his way?"

"That's not how it has to be," Gerard says, but there's no emotion in it. Bert just pats his bag, and hands him his cigarette.

"Okay."

 

...

 

Bob is sitting on his front stoop when Gerard gets there. There are two mini tambourines toppled over by his feet. Bob's not looking at them or Gerard. He stops right in front of Bob, his toes almost touching his. "You missed English today."

"Yeah. Didn't really see the point."

"Did you get some practice in at least?"

Bob snorts and looks up at him. "I found these at this garage sale, and I figured, I've got to keep adding to my collection. Keep the dream alive."

Gerard doesn't like where this is going. "And?"

"Sold. Probably for way less than I bought them for."

"Oh. What are you going to do now?"

"Join the military, I guess."

"No, I mean. Right now. Do you want to go to a record store or anything?"

"I suck, Gerard."

"No you don't."

Bob laughs, bitter and low. "I kinda do. I can't play for more than fifteen minutes straight on a good day anyway. Can you imagine any band that would deal with that? Fifteen minute shows, wouldn't that be revolutionary. It's all such a joke. I'm such a joke."

Gerard moves his hand to Bob's hand, stroking his hair. He crouches in front of him, and moves his hand after a few strokes, fingers almost touching Bob's eyelashes as Gerard's palm cups his face. 

Bob's eyes are closed, and he takes a sharp breath. "Sometimes, I'd go down to the basement, and I'd put on a live album and I could literally see myself on the stage. Playing the ten minute solo on one of those hydraulic risers, right?" Gerard has to smile; it's a nice visual. Lights behind Bob as beats filter through the air.

Bob takes a sharp breath before continuing. "I'm not going to be that guy. I'm never going to be that guy. I'm lucky if I get to be the guy that pushes the button that makes the riser go up. But I'm not gonna be that guy. I can't even be him, because I can't even keep a C+ average."

"I can help you get your grades up."

Bob’s eyelids flutter, and his eyes are clear when he says, "It's too late."

Gerard's losing balance the way he's crouching, and he leans in the tiniest bit, lips brushing against the corner of Bob's mouth. He almost tips over, his balance disturbed, but Bob's hands are on his back, holding him up. 

He's not pulling Gerard in or pushing him away; just keeping him steady. It makes it that much worse, that Bob can't take what he wants. He kisses Gerard back with dry lips.

Gerard has to fight not to just push Bob down, or grind against him or bite him or anything him, just to get a reaction. It's like it doesn't even matter anymore: nothing left to lose and nothing left to gain. It's right; not the way it should be. Gerard lets his teeth scrape against Bob's tongue, and he pushes him harder, hands on Bob's chest. He doesn't stop until he feels Bob fold, body pliant and soft under Gerard's palms.


End file.
